


The Veto

by astrangerfate, orphan_account



Series: The Veto 'Verse [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Happy Epilogue, I really love SHIELD agents, Kink Meme, Prompt Fic, Spanking, Trust, Workplace, non-sexual discipline fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerfate/pseuds/astrangerfate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=16237316#t16237316">a very long prompt at avengerkink</a>, which begins:</p><p>All new SHIELD agents are given a psych workup that is used to determine what the best means of discipline would be for each recruit. Enough agents respond best to spanking that specific training in spanking techniques and other associated skills (scolding, how to read when someone's really had enough vs. just needs to struggle, appropriate aftercare, tailoring all of the above a specific agents and situations) is a standard part of the training all handlers and senior agents get. Agents must discuss with, agree and consent to all forms of discipline with their handlers/superiors everyone involved gets a veto.</p><p>The psych eval, and pretty much anyone who's ever worked with him, agree that Agent Barton will respond best to spanking. In fact, he doesn't seem to respond to any other form of discipline at all. And he's vetoed spanking and refuses to discuss it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shotboxer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotboxer/gifts).



> The [full prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=16237316#t16237316) was delicious and intense and involving, and a friend of mine mentioned how badly she wanted to see it written. So it's for hucknclem as well as the original anon prompter; thanks to both of you for the inspiration.
> 
> This wasn't written as pre-slash, but it could certainly be read that way.

Clint’s not an idiot. After Agent Redding had broken down and tearfully announced that she wasn’t going to watch his spiral of self-destruction any longer, he figured he would wind up in Deputy Director Hill’s office. It’s still not the way he wants to spend his first day back in the country in a month.

“Do you know why Agent Redding asked to be reassigned?” Hill asks, looking over her desk at Clint with barely disguised disapproval.

“Let me guess,” Clint proposes, knowing and not even caring that he sounds like a teenager with an attitude problem. “She got tired of writing me up.”

“She got tired of seeing your willful recklessness and disobedience, if that’s what you mean,” Hill says sharply. “She got tired of repeating the same mission protocols over and over, and having you promise to do better, and then turn around and ignore her again.”

“Sorry. I’ll do better next time,” Clint says flatly. Pushing Maria Hill is only somewhat satisfying, because no matter how hard he tries, he has yet to get a reaction.

“If you keep this up much longer, Agent Barton, you’ll run out of next times,” Hill warns. “Which is precisely why Agent Redding requested a transfer.”

“Well, I know she wasn’t complaining about the view,” Clint says.

“Do you think this is some kind of joke?” Hill asks. It’s a rhetorical question, maybe because she knows that if she gave him a chance to answer, she wouldn’t like what she heard. “You’re undisciplined and virtually unmanageable. Half the agents at our disposal refuse to work with you.”

That’s no real surprise, but the words still sting, even if Clint had expected them. He’s careful not to let it show. “Jealousy’s a terrible thing,” he says instead, shrugging.

“Be honest with me, Barton,” Hill requests, and nothing that comes after those words is ever going to be good. “Why haven’t any of our disciplinary measures worked for you?”

“I’m my own man,” Clint answers automatically. “I don’t like being told what to do.” He flashes her a smile that says she should leave him the hell alone. She doesn’t heed the warning.

“See, on your intake evaluation, the psych workup said you’d respond best to a good, hard spanking,” Hill says, and Clint can feel a blush creeping up his neck and flushing his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. “But that was the only form of discipline you flat-out vetoed. Why is that?”

“Maybe I don’t like the idea of somebody beating my ass?” Clint suggests sarcastically, but his heart’s not in it. He’s a sniper, not a spy, and she has to be able to tell how uncomfortable he is with this line of questioning.

“You know that’s not how we do things here,” Hill says. She’s watching him closely, and he shifts under the scrutiny, wondering how dire the consequences would be if he pretended to be sick, or just made a run for it.

“So maybe I don’t think it would work,” he says instead, a little too defiant. He feels too big for his skin and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He does _not_ want to be here.

“Mmmm.” She flips through the file on her lap until she finds what she must have been looking for and begins to read aloud, with a little more volume than she usually uses. “‘Barton’s evaluation reveals strong repressed desires for guidance and discipline,’” she quotes, and he’s pretty sure she’s not making it up. “‘His childhood experiences, coupled with his emotional detachment, means he will best be suited to tangible physical punishment. It is our recommendation that he be enrolled with the use of spankings, preferably from a parental figure.’”

Clint remains absolutely silent. He stares at the wall behind Hill’s head, imagines burying an arrow inches from her face. He studies the wood grain, takes note of where he’d like to embed the tip so as not to destroy the ambiance of the room, which somehow mixes a secret bunker with the Oval Office.

“Half a dozen handlers have tried to use just the lectures and scolding that would normally accompany a spanking, but maybe you can tune them out because they’re just words,” Hill says. “You can ignore them in a way you couldn’t ignore the spanking. So tell me, Barton, why the veto?”

“I don’t feel like letting anyone smack my ass,” Clint grinds out. “And you know what? You can’t make me. You can’t impose any punishment I veto, and I’m not going to take it back. So if there’s nothing else, I’m leaving.” He meets her eyes in a clear challenge.

“You’ve been assigned to Agent Phil Coulson,” she says. “The two of you leave for Burma next Thursday. And Barton? Don’t fuck this one up too.”

Clint nods once, gets to his feet, and slams the door behind him when he goes.

\--

Clint’s on his third beer, maybe fourth, when someone takes a seat next to him at the bar. Clint had seen the guy approach in his periphery, but it’s unusual in a place like this, to say the least. He turns his head to see a vaguely familiar face. Shit.

“I’m Phil Coulson,” the man offers, holding out a hand. Clint takes another drink, nodding.

“I know who you are,” he says, and finally returns the handshake. Coulson’s grip is firm, and Clint has to fight the urge to tighten his own fingers in a bid for control.

“Don’t you think it’s a little late for alcohol with the flight tomorrow?” Coulson asks, raising his eyebrows. Just like that, he thinks he can come in and start telling Clint how to be a good little agent.

“No offense, but I’ve been drinking as long as I’ve been shooting. I’ll be fine,” Clint says. He gestures to the glass. “Beer all night. I’m not even buzzed.”

“Glad to hear it. Hangovers make for nasty work days,” Coulson says. Like he’s trying to be Clint’s buddy. “Have you been through the paperwork?” he asks, and Clint rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I got it.” He doesn’t go into any further details, even though no one else in the bar is paying them any attention. “Look, I appreciate you coming out here, but it isn’t really the time or the place. I’m off the clock, trying to enjoy my night.”

“Oh, so am I,” Coulson tells him. “But I thought it was time we were formally introduced. You didn’t respond to my messages.”

“I’ve been busy,” Clint says with a shrug. Busy, and spending a lot of time at the training center working out his aggression, feeling it course through his veins until he’s back in control of his body and everything around him.

Coulson gives him a small smile. “You must have a lot of faith, not even meeting the guy who’s supposed to have your back.”

“Pretty routine job,” Clint says. “‘Pull the trigger, save the world.’ I got it.”

“I hate to intrude on your time off,” Coulson says, in a voice that makes it clear he’s about to do just that, and Clint had better be willing to roll with the punches. “But I think it would be a good idea for us to go someplace a little more private.”

“What, like a hotel room?” Clint scoffs, loud enough to make the bartender deliberately avert his eyes from across the room.

“I brought my car. Let me drive you home,” Coulson says, seemingly unfazed.

“Why would you want to do that?” Clint asks. It’s a valid question; Coulson doesn’t know him from Adam, and everything he’s heard about Clint has to indicate that he’s going to be a tough assignment.

“Because you could use a good night’s sleep before tomorrow, and it’ll save you some cab fare,” Coulson answers. There’s more to it than that; there always is. Coulson probably wants to trap him in the car for half an hour with no escape route so he can quiz Clint about his file and all the black marks on his record.

“Is it negotiable?” Clint asks, and Coulson offers him a small smile.

“I think you’ll find it’s the best option,” he says, not really answering the question. “I’m happy to let you finish your drink first if you’d like.”

“I’m done,” Clint says. No point in antagonizing Coulson too much on their first day out. He lifts the glass to his lips and chugs it, drops thirty bucks on the bar.

Coulson’s car is a dark sedan, nondescript but for the heavily tinted windows. Pretty much exactly what Clint would have expected. He’s gratified to discover the child safety locks aren’t engaged, at least.

“I’m guessing you have my address already,” he hazards, and Coulson taps his GPS unit with a nod.

“Rough part of town,” he says, and Clint shrugs. No one pays attention to his comings and goings there, and that’s a good thing in his line of work.

There’s silence for a minute as Coulson’s GPS communicates with the satellite and directs him to take the Woodlawn route. It’s the scenic option, and Clint wonders whether he’s programmed the device to avoid highways specifically for this trip.

“So, Clint,” Coulson says conversationally. “Why don’t you tell me something about what you’re looking for in a handler?”

 _Someone willing to take the job._ “I don’t know,” Clint answers. What kind of question is that, anyway?

“As I understand it, you’ve been through a few handlers by this point and haven’t really clicked with anyone,” Coulson says. He avoids mentioning any of the prevailing theories as to why Clint drives people away, and Clint’s grateful for that. “So I’m wondering what works for you and what doesn’t work for you. What do you need from me?”

“You mean you don’t just come in with your years of experience and tell me how to run things?” Clint asks, a little rudely.

“Part of our training is in tailoring our relationships with each agent to best serve that agent’s individual needs,” Coulson says. “It makes it easier to hear you tell me what you’re looking for; I can make my best guess based on your file and your behavior as we continue to work together, but especially starting out, I’d like to hear your take on it.”

Clint hasn’t been asked that before. He knows it’s probably a routine, Coulson’s tactic to make him relax his guard and be more comfortable about the man. But he’s also starting to feel a little bit guilty. Because Coulson may be a stuffed shirt and a stick in the mud, but he’s intelligent, he’s obviously observant, and he’s just trying to do his job. Maybe even trying harder than Clint expected him to.

“You’ve got to understand what it’s like in the field,” he says finally. “Shit goes down, the missions get blown to hell, and it happens more often than SHIELD wants you to think. I have a high success rate because I can roll with it and adapt. Make different calls in the critical moment.”

“I know you’re good at thinking on your feet,” Coulson acknowledges. “I was impressed by the Alsatian files. Not many agents could have pulled off that kind of gamble.”

He’s trying to flatter Clint, and Clint is just hungry enough for approval that it’s probably working. “Right,” Clint says, trying not to get too sidetracked. “You have to understand that when I’m in the field, I have eyes on a situation you couldn’t possibly have. I’m going to make calls you’re not going to like. Oh, and I’m better from a distance. I don’t really like guns, and I hate undercover. I’ll do it, but it’s better to use me for what I am.”

“Fair enough,” Coulson says. The drive is quicker and easier than Clint thought it might be. “Let me tell you a little bit about what I like to see in agents I supervise.”

Here it comes.

“The most important part is communication,” he says. “You’re right when you say that you have eyes I don’t. So I need you to keep me informed of what’s going on, and any changes you’re going to make to the plan.”

Sounds reasonable enough. “There’s not always a lot of time on the fly,” Clint points out.

“You make time,” Coulson says. “If I’m going to help you, I have to understand what’s going on. There’s a lot of trust at stake. I’m sure you won’t let me down.”

“Yeah, well, don’t be too sure of that,” Clint says darkly.

“We have some mutual responsibilities, Clint,” Coulson tells him. “I’m going to uphold my end of things, and you’re going to do the same. I don’t think it will be much of a problem - I won’t keep you on too tight a leash - but you’re going to be responsible for your actions in the field, and I’m going to hold you accountable to some ground rules.”

“Like the communication?” Clint asks, wondering exactly what form of “accountability” Coulson plans to employ.

“Communication, and not doing anything stupid,” Coulson says. “Insurance premiums are high enough without that.”

“I can’t promise I’ll be able to follow those rules every time,” Clint says, a little annoyed by the way Coulson is seeming more and more like a nice guy. If this is Hill’s idea of a father figure, he’s just not going to put up with it.

“You’ll try,” Coulson says firmly.

Clint keeps quiet as they turn into a neighborhood without streetlights. His.

“In addition to the human trafficking, Aung’s been implicated in some underground militia work,” Coulson says, seemingly out of the blue.

“I know,” Clint says. “I read the file. Not affiliated with the junta though.”

“Not as far as we know,” Coulson allows. “The point is, things might get risky. He’s bound to have security measures in place, and he might even resort to violence against civilians and hostage-taking if he’s tipped off to us.”

“It’ll be fine,” Clint says. “Really. Don’t sweat it.” Coulson is pulling up in front of his apartment building, and nice guy or not, Clint’s anxious to get out of the car.

“I’ll pick you up at seven in the morning,” Coulson says, as he stops the car.

“That’s really not necessary,” Clint assures him. “I’ll get a cab to the airport.”

“I insist,” Coulson says, and Clint can’t really argue with that, so he gets out of the car and trudges off. Part of him wants to just call a cab at 6:45, but he’s not going to start things off on that note. Coulson will see him for the fuck-up he is soon enough anyway.

\--

What was it Clint was telling Coulson the other night? Missions go to hell all the time, and this is one of those ones. It seems like everything’s gone wrong, and here he is, in the pouring rain, training his bow on Aung. Who just happens to be holding a hysterical woman in front of him as a human shield.

“Don’t take the shot. I repeat, do not take the shot,” Coulson’s voice sounds in his ear. In the distance, Clint can hear voices, growing louder. No doubt they were attracted by the screams.

“I can make it,” he tells Coulson, and he can. He knows how this goes down, every time. He’s got this.

“Barton, so help me - ” Coulson begins, but Clint has already let his arrow fly. It buries itself in Aung’s skull and he drops almost instantly, releasing his hostage.

“What just happened?” Coulson demands, and Clint remembers that thing about communication. Well, he’d told Coulson he could make the shot. That was communicating.

“He’s down. Aung’s been neutralized,” Clint hears himself say.

“Get yourself out of there,” Coulson says, not wasting his breath on a reprimand. “You have armed hostiles approaching from the west; they’ll be on you in under two minutes.”

In Clint’s line of work, the quickest way out is usually down. It’s a risk, but one he’s willing to take. He’s at a lower point of the mountain range, and if he swings it right, he’ll have no trouble landing a short distance from Aung’s hostage. And his body. It’s better than no plan at all, so he takes a running leap, turns in mid-air, and shoots a grappling arrow into the side of the mountain.

It holds, but only just. Clint has to leave the arrow embedded in the mountain as he drops to the ground and rolls to his feet, ignoring the shrieks from the woman who has no idea what’s going on. She runs back toward the cabin, apparently choosing probable slavery over the Westerner with the weapons. Clint lowers his voice to speak to Coulson.

“Incoming hostiles - are they associates of Aung’s?”

“Affirmative,” Coulson responds. “We can have a recovery team to you in six minutes. Can you take cover?”

Can he? Yes. Will he? “Not looking likely,” he tells Coulson. “I’m going to see if I can take care of these assholes.” He’ll be shooting up and the wind is against him, but he’s still betting an explosive arrow can give him all the cover he needs.

“You don’t need to be doing anything rash,” Coulson warns.

“I had to leave my descent where it was,” Clint says. How’s that for communication? “They could use it to come after me. Gotta be thorough.” They probably couldn’t, not unless they’re some sort of Special Ops, but it’s as good a cover as anything, and it’s mostly true.

He waits until the first of the hostiles appears on the ridge, counts to ten, and fires. He knows before the arrow leaves his bow that his aim is going to be true.

\--

His debriefing takes place in a windowless room with too much air conditioning, and while Clint doesn’t think it’s intentional, it certainly has him off his game a little. It’s strange anyway, his first mission with a new handler, and the way he knows Coulson is going to be justifiably pissed about some of his choices.

“Do you want to tell me what happened back there?” Coulson asks, as casually as if nothing went wrong and it’s all routine.

Clint shrugs. “Took out a sick fuck and some of his buddies, crippled a human trafficking ring and saved hundreds of lives, didn’t get a scratch.” He gives an empty smile.

“I didn’t tell you not to take that shot because I thought you couldn’t make it,” Coulson says, directing Clint’s attention right back where he wants it. “You were observed, you were being approached by at least one group of unfriendlies, and there were civilians to consider.”

“And it all turned out okay,” Clint points out.

“That’s not the issue here, Clint,” Coulson says, and Clint resigns himself to another lecture about being a team player.

“So what is the issue?” he asks.

“I need to trust you to follow the plan and follow orders,” Coulson says. “We don’t have anything without trust. And you have a responsibility to act in SHIELD’s best interest, not in the interest of what Clint Barton thinks is cool.”

His matter-of-fact tone is almost insufferable, and Clint lashes out automatically. “Maybe you should think about trusting me to know my own limits!” he points out. “I know what I can and can’t do, okay? Maybe you have a responsibility to fucking listen to the field agent who’s done this more times than you ever will, and maybe I made the right calls!”

He’s glaring hard and breathing heavily, but Coulson just looks at him, waiting for him to calm down.

“Are you done?” he asks, when Clint’s fists begin to uncurl.

Clint shrugs, wanting to be anywhere else. Too bad there’s nowhere else to go. The room was chosen well in that respect; storming out will only send him into the waiting arms of less amused SHIELD agents.

“You’re right,” Coulson says, and that catches Clint by surprise. “Trust is a two-way street, and you did a damn good job back there. But you know what the key is to trust?”

It’s another trick question, Clint’s sure of it. But he’s caught off guard by Coulson’s calm demeanor and giving Clint due credit, so he gives it a shot. “Uhhh, communication?” he tries awkwardly.

Coulson nods. “That’s right. It’ll get easier, the more time we spend together. But for now, you walk through every step with me, and I’ll do the same. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says. He’s a little surprised to hear himself calling Coulson ‘sir’ already, but he can’t help but have some genuine respect for the man.

“Oh, and Clint?” Coulson says. Clint looks up to meet his eyes. “The next time you throw a temper tantrum like that in a debriefing, there are going to be serious consequences.”

Clint’s not yet sure what that will entail, so he nods his acknowledgement. “Communication on mission, respect during debriefings,” he says. “Got it. Won’t happen again.”

\--

It’s nothing Clint ever expected to happen - probably nothing anybody expected to happen - but he and Coulson keep on getting along. Coulson is stable, unflappable, and at times wickedly funny. Clint finds himself looking forward to working more than he ever has before, because between Coulson and Natasha, it’s like he finally has people he can be himself around.

Maybe just because they’re paid to be there. Of course it’s because they’re paid, and Natasha’s continued visa depends on her playing nice. But they’re the first coworkers who seem to be able to tolerate him, and he notices himself tolerating them more too.

He’s doing his job better, and if it’s for the approving nods he gets from Coulson, he’ll never admit it. He would say he’s just calming down as he gets older, until one night after he gets back in from Johannesburg and gets into a hell of a bar fight.

He doesn’t have an excuse, unless it’s the fact that he was almost dead in the water in Johannesburg until Coulson followed up on his triangulated location. And he’s happy to be alive, but he’d had to listen to an unbearable recitation about how lucky he was that he’d been checking in and staying in close touch the way he was supposed to. So maybe he’s exhausted and looking to blow off some steam, or maybe it’s just strange to be alone after so many days in close contact with other people, and he doesn’t know how to handle himself.

“You’re smarter than that, Clint,” Coulson tells him on the phone, the disapproval evident in his voice. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” And Clint is left wondering whether he really is smarter than that or not, until Coulson arrives at the police station.

“I was having dinner with a lovely young woman named Monica,” he says as Clint gets into the car beside him. “She’s with the symphony.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint mutters. He’s too embarrassed to even look at the older man.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Coulson asks, just like they’re having another mission debrief, and Clint thinks it might have been better to spend the night locked up after all.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he says, hating the way it makes him seem vulnerable. Friendless. Alone.

“That’s not what I’m asking about,” Coulson assures him.

“I was blowing off some steam,” Clint says. “It got a little out of hand. It was just stupid, and the guy was drunker than I thought, and he tried to get in my space and I made him back off.”

“How drunk were you?” Coulson asks. There’s no judgment in the question, at least not expressly, but Clint thinks he can feel the disappointment radiating from his handler, and it’s awful.

“A little,” he admits.

“A little?”

Clint had had a few too many shots of tequila, which probably said more than he wanted to admit about his decision-making for the last eight hours. “It won’t happen again,” he says instead. “Guy’s not going to press charges. It’s all done.”

“You’re sure he’s not going to press charges?” Coulson asks.

Clint shrugs. “He’s three times my size. He’s not going to say I beat him up.”

There’s silence for a minute. “I’m taking you back to my place,” Coulson announces, and Clint stiffens.

“Hey, no,” he protests. “Just drop me off at my apartment. I’m fine.”

“You’re going to go to sleep, get up at six in the morning, and go for a run,” Coulson continues, like Clint hasn’t said anything. “You’re not going to drink anything. In bed by ten, repeat for the rest of the week.”

“Who do you think you are, my father?” Clint asks, equally enraged and nervous about how Coulson plans on enforcing this. Is he going to tell anyone else? Is he going to make Clint look weak? Make him look vulnerable? Fuck, no.

“I hope I’m your friend,” Coulson says, and Clint’s heart squeezes painfully. There’s a lot he wants to say to that, from _I don’t need friends_ to _Who asked you anyway_ to _You’re only doing this because you’re my handler and eventually you’re going to leave me like everyone else._

Coulson takes his silence as permission to keep talking. “After the next week, we’ll discuss drinking in moderation. If I think it’s a good idea, you’ll have a two-drink maximum, no more than twice a week.”

“Bullshit,” Clint says, startled out of his thoughts.

“I can give you an alcohol monitor if you think I need to,” Coulson says.

“This is ridiculous,” Clint mutters, slumping down in his seat.

“I don’t think you realize just how badly I want to put you over my knee right now,” Coulson says, and Clint feels the color drain from his face.

“You can’t,” he says quickly. “I vetoed - ”

“I know all about your veto, Clint,” Coulson says. “And believe me, I’m tempted to spank you anyway, as someone who cares about you, not as part of an official reprimand. But I’m going to respect that veto for the time being.”

“You can’t fucking do this,” Clint warns. Not least because no matter what Coulson says, it would be an official reprimand. Because even if Coulson is the closest thing to a friend Clint has, even if he doesn’t have anyone else he could call to bail him out of jail over a stupid bar fight, Coulson is still his handler. His interest in Clint is professional. That’s how it works.

“I won’t spank you, but if I don’t see a definite improvement in your language and your attitude, I’m washing your mouth out with soap,” Coulson says, and Clint thinks he might actually have to ask Coulson to pull over so he can puke.

“Yes, sir,” he manages after a moment.

Coulson nods. “Some sleep is going to do you good,” he says, and Clint doesn’t have the energy to argue.

\--

The recovery helicopter touches down in Vienna at three in the morning local time, and of course Coulson is on the roof, waiting to meet them as they land. Clint and Natasha share a grimace as they step out into the chilly January air.

“Eight hours,” Coulson says, and it’s the closest Clint has ever come to seeing the man lose his cool. “You were out of reach for eight hours.”

“Nat told you earlier, we couldn’t risk blowing our cover,” Clint says, with a little more attitude than is probably appropriate for a SHIELD agent.

“You flushed your earpieces without warning. You were off the grid for eight hours, and any number of unpleasant things could have happened,” Coulson states. “By rights you should both lose your jobs over this. You think the CIA has to put up with this kind of behavior?”

“We made the right call,” Natasha says. “I’m sorry we didn’t warn you. There wasn’t a lot of time.”

“The courtesy never seems to matter to Barton anyway,” Coulson says, and Clint gets the feeling he hasn’t heard the end of that. “Regardless, we were about an hour away from deploying a cleanup squad. You all could have been killed.”

“I’ll make sure you’re kept abreast of any changes like that in the future,” Natasha promises, and Coulson nods once.

“I want you both to go to your hotel rooms,” he says, jerking his head to the access stair. “I’ll be in to discuss this individually with each of you before you go to sleep.”

“Yes, Dad,” Clint smarts off, and if Coulson had laser eyes, he would have been dead on the spot. Natasha’s kick to his ankle makes him wonder if he hasn’t gone a little too far this time.

“Go,” Coulson directs, and for once Clint has the good sense to obey instructions.

He clatters down the stairs, swiping his way onto the eighth floor with the provided key, lets himself into his room and sits on the bed. For a moment he wonders whether he should risk splashing some water on his face and setting the coffee pot, but he quickly decides that Coulson is probably going to keep him waiting for a while, and he might as well freshen up a little.

Clint’s right about that; it’s nearly an hour before Coulson comes in to deal with him, and even with the shitty hotel coffee he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. Once Coulson arrives though, he’s immediately alert. This isn’t going to be good, regardless. He gets up from the king-sized bed and joins Coulson in the short chairs at the breakfast table, looking anywhere but into his handler’s eyes.

“How many times have we had this conversation, Clint?” Coulson asks, and he’s in better control of his emotions than he was when the helicopter landed, but his voice is flat and it sounds like he’s at the end of his rope. It’s a tone Clint has heard a dozen times before as he’s burned his bridges with each and every one of SHIELD’s finest; until Coulson.

“I stopped keeping track,” Clint says. It’s true. He has no idea how many mission debriefings have ended in this stalemate, with Coulson trying everything under the sun to change his behavior and Clint pulling empty promises out of his ass. _Trust. Communication._ Communication is always Coulson’s sorest point, so maybe going off the grid wasn’t the best move.

“I’m getting tired of repeating myself,” Coulson tells him, and Clint nods mutely. He knows exactly how this conversation goes down. “You know exactly what you did wrong, you knew what I would think of it, and you chose to do it anyway. So we’re not going to talk about that.”

That gets his attention. “We’re not?” Clint asks, looking up at Coulson’s inscrutable face.

“No. We’re going to talk about your psych eval,” Coulson tells him, and a lead weight settles in Clint’s stomach.

“What about it?” he asks, not giving an inch.

“You know it said the only punishment that would have any impact on your performance here was a spanking,” Coulson says.

“And I vetoed that,” Clint is quick to point out.

“I want to talk about your veto,” Coulson tells him.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Clint says. And there isn’t. It’ll be a cold day in hell before Clint submits to a spanking.

“I’m not sure why you’ve vetoed spankings, although I’m happy to discuss any reservations with you in detail,” Coulson says, and maybe it’s the coffee on an empty stomach, but Clint feels hot and nauseated. He jerks his head no, but Coulson ignores it and continues talking.

“I don’t know why you insist on any other forms of discipline in our arsenal when they’re highly unlikely to work for you,” he says. “Especially when we have a tool at our disposal that should have an excellent success rate.”

“That’s never happening,” Clint tells him.

“Clint, something has to change,” Coulson answers flatly. “We were terrified tonight, all of us. We thought we had lost you. You keep this up, and one of our best agents or no, you’re going to become a liability.”

“So what? Are you cutting me loose?” Clint asks. He can barely breathe. This isn’t supposed to be happening; Coulson’s stuck with him through everything, longer than anyone else, and yeah, Clint’s fed him a lot of bullshit, but this conversation isn’t good. It isn’t okay.

“Nobody’s cutting you loose,” Coulson says, “But, Clint -”

“No,” Clint says abruptly, rising to his feet. “End of conversation. We’re done here.” He practically races to the bathroom, locking the door behind him and turning the shower on. The lock is a flimsy little thing Coulson could kick in even quicker than he could pick, but he doesn’t. He knocks, and Clint can feel him waiting for a long time after.

Clint sits fully clothed on the toilet and breathes, letting the sound of the water calm him. He can do this. He can get through this. Even if Coulson does leave him, even if SHIELD does terminate their arrangement with Clint. But he can’t, and won’t, let anyone break him apart or try to put him back together.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, his room is deserted, but Coulson has left a note on the pad by the telephone.

_Four weeks of desk duty. C._

So that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the country's official name has been Myanmar since 1989, multiple countries and interest groups, including the United States of America, continue to refer to it as Burma. Personal politics aside, I believe SHIELD would be among those parties.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s nine in the morning. Clint’s been here all of fifty minutes and he can already feel every muscle in his body screaming for release. He wasn’t made for this. He’s going to go insane, stamping each paper inside the stack of folders, dating, initialing, and returning them to the neatly alphabetized file cabinet. In another hour he predicts he’ll have torn off the ill-fitting suit and started stamping his coworkers.

He’s not entirely surprised to see Natasha saunter over, then take a seat on the edge of his desk. She’s not exactly made for busy work either, although she looks the part much better than he ever could. She’s wearing a pinstriped skirt suit; the skirt doesn’t quite reach her knees, and the long legs swinging in his peripheral vision are distracting, to say the least.

“So, Agent Barton, how’s the desk work treating you?” she asks, smirking.

Clint groans. “I have no idea how you put up with this,” he tells her. “I’m not going to last a month. I’m just not. I’m going to put an arrow through my own skull.” He welcomes the distraction though, setting aside the stamp and looking up at his partner.

“There’s always another option, you know,” Natasha points out, giving him a look that’s way too shrewd for his liking. Suddenly she seems less like a naughty librarian and more like a high school teacher. He’s not sure he likes that look on her.

Clint stiffens defensively. “Did Coulson put you up to this?” he asks. That asshole. He knew his handler had been serious about revoking the veto, but telling Natasha about it was a low blow.

“Coulson? No,” Natasha says. “It’s obvious. Anyone who’s ever worked with you would know. So why aren’t they spanking you?”

“That’s none of your business,” Clint snaps. He feels his face growing hot, glances around the bullpen to see if anyone is listening. Fortunately, they appear to be mostly alone. Rodney Anderson is in the corner, but he’s a suck-up and a mid-level paper pusher, and Clint really can’t imagine him eavesdropping. “Maybe I’m not a good candidate for spanking.”

“Oh, please.” Natasha can spot his lies a mile away. “You’re practically the poster child for it. You need a good spanking more than anyone I’ve ever met, and I’m not just saying that because you have a killer ass.”

“Yeah, well, why aren’t they spanking _you_?” Clint asks. Deflecting with another question, a trick Natasha will never fall for.

Natasha scoffs. “Oh, baby,” she drawls, making it clear she’s laughing at him, not with him. “You really think a few taps on the ass are going to break me?”

“Well, fine,” Clint says irritably. “So you’re not a good candidate. What makes you think I should be getting spanked?”

Natasha laughs again. “Everything about you?” she teases, but he can tell she means it, and that only makes him glare harder. She pauses, considers him seriously. “Well, I guess if I had to pick one thing - it’s that everything is right under the surface with you. You’re an open book. You have all this anger and vulnerability and really, it can be compelling, but it’s always just right there and nothing is ever going to touch it except some - personal attention.” She gives him a rueful smile.

“Yeah, well, anytime you want to show my dick some personal attention, just let me know,” Clint growls. Natasha’s words had cut too close to home; it’s uncomfortable thinking anyone knows him as well as all that, and it’s even more uncomfortable to think he might be somehow _broadcasting_ his issues to SHIELD at large. To assholes like Maria Hill and Rodney Anderson and especially Phil Coulson.

“In your dreams, Barton,” Natasha says, rolling her eyes. “Really, though. You live on the edge of everything, letting all that shit build up inside you. It would be good for you to let go of it, give up control and let someone help you through it.”

“Unless you’re volunteering, maybe you should get back to work,” Clint says shortly. He retrieves his stamp, opening a folder of coffee invoices from the last month.

Natasha throws her hands up in exasperation. “Someday you’re not going to be able to run away from this, Clint,” she warns. She pushes herself off his desk, tosses an annoyed look over her shoulder, and strolls off. Clint is too shaken up to even watch her walk off in that skirt and those heels. He stamps down viciously. **PAID. PAID. PAID.**

\--

Desk duty gets old quickly. It’s not that Clint has a bad work ethic; it’s just that he’s being punished, and the asshole senior agents are taking that as license to assign him a shit ton of busy work that has him sitting still and doing anything but thinking. And he gets that it’s supposed to be a punishment, he does, but this is officially the worst punishment Coulson has ever given him. And that man can be creative.

In Clint’s defense, he makes it through two days with a pretty good track record and without getting overly distracted. But he naturally just doesn’t have that kind of attention span unless he’s planning to shoot something, and weapons are generally frowned upon in the offices.

By Wednesday, he’s ordering Pizza Hut delivery to Maria Hill. He’s no hacker, but he’s watched Natasha enough to route the order anonymously through Belarus, and it kills a good twenty minutes for him. Still, it’s all he can do to keep from giving himself away as Anderson tells the story of how the security guards were trying to figure out if it was legit.

And it may be a small bright spot in an otherwise depressing Wednesday, but he knows it’s just setting the scene for bigger and better things.

Thursday sees a Papa John’s order placed for the entire third floor. Sadly, security figures out it’s a hoax a lot quicker the second day in a row, and Clint is left with five hours on the clock and nothing to do but update contractor information in the computer system, and maybe play Galaga. He’s pretty sure a software program could be doing this for him, and even his loud whistling doesn’t seem to help, when none of his coworkers complain.

His personal email beeps on his phone: Natasha. _Cute trick with the pizzas. How old are you, fourteen?_ If she’s got him figured out, it’s a fair bet that Coulson isn’t far behind, but the man has been keeping his distance since that night in the Austrian hotel room. Not that Clint’s surprised by that; he was bound to drive off Coulson eventually. It was only a matter of time.

He uses a German international calling website to route Natasha’s cell phone to continually dial the national number of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It’s only costing her 1.4 cents a minute, but the confusion as she tries to figure out how to stop it is priceless.

To her credit, Tasha doesn’t rat him out as other agents crowd around her desk, trying to stop the recording asking Natasha if she is interested in making a donation. She merely gives him a grim salute that promises this isn’t over.

Meanwhile, it’s 4 pm, and Clint is reasonably certain that if he borrows an official stationery sheet with letterhead from Agent Sitwell’s desk, any memos he might send out have a good chance of going mostly unobserved until the following morning. By Sitwell, at least, if not by the newest recruits who belong to the generation of endlessly refreshing their email. Clint’s first memo announces the inaugural Casual Friday for the next day, with a special theme of Hawaiian shirts. It seems a little weak though, so his second memo declares a state of emergency, with Lockdown Level 9 to be observed, following reports of a merman invasion.

It’s just as he’s sending off the third memo, praising the single-handed defeat of the mermen by Agent Rodney Anderson and reinstating Casual Friday, that he feels a hand on his shoulder. Coulson.

“I think a disciplinary suspension without pay for the next three weeks might be a good alternative to desk duty,” Coulson tells him mildly.

And if Clint thought being stuck in an office was boring, that’s nothing compared to being on his own.

\--

It’s his first time back in the field since Vienna, and Clint should be toeing the line. He knows he’s on thin ice, knows that at this point Coulson is probably just looking for an excuse to be reassigned. But that knowledge only makes Clint all the more determined to give Coulson that excuse.

It’s not his type of case. He’s been marking a drug kingpin in Miami for the last two days. His orders are clear: make it look like a suicide that can quickly be hushed up while throwing the syndicate into chaos. Apparently there are some complicated diplomacy issues involved in just taking the guy out, or in allowing anyone to put the finger on him for narcotics involvement. It’s supposed to be something that doesn’t make a mess.

And it would be so very easy for Clint to fuck it up. He’d rather blow the whole damn mansion, to be honest, with the target inside. Watch the local police meekly blame it on a gas explosion after a little pressure from higher up the chain of command. But that would have his mark all over it, and he doesn’t need the extra attention that would come with being the only assassin in certain circles to use exploding arrows.

There are a dozen other ways he could fuck up less royally, ways that wouldn’t incriminate SHIELD or himself personally. He could angle the gun in a way that made it impossible to shoot oneself, forget to leave residue on the target’s own hands, attack clumsily and give the fucker a few defensive wounds. He could call in an anonymous narcotics tip before or after the hit.

And really, he’s warned them multiple times that he doesn’t like jobs to be up close and personal like this, so a little fuck up is nothing SHIELD shouldn’t be expecting.

“What are you thinking, Clint?” Coulson’s voice sounds in his ear, and Clint bristles with annoyance. Things haven’t been the same between them since that whole veto talk in the hotel room. Sure, Coulson was the same as ever, but the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife, and Coulson has been smart enough to keep a decent distance.

“Nothing,” he shoots back.

“I can hear the wheels turning,” Coulson counters.

“This dipshit shouldn’t get a pass just because he’s connected to some family,” Clint returns. “The suicide shtick is crap, sir. All due respect.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Coulson reminds him. The firmness in his voice makes it clear that sometimes Clint makes different calls, and sometimes it’s okay, but this isn’t one of those times. “You go in there and make sure you follow the plan exactly.”

And just like that, Clint knows exactly how he can make Coulson blow his fuse while only earning a slap on the wrist from SHIELD. “Yes, sir,” he says. “Going in now.”

And he does go in. But his earpiece doesn’t. It stays conspicuously on the front seat of the surveillance car, where Coulson can ask it all the questions he likes and get nothing in return.

Clint might prefer his bow to a gun any day of the week, and distance assassinations to close range, but that doesn’t make him any less professional. He has one arm around the mark’s neck before his presence is noted, and from there it’s the simplest move in the world to wrap the protesting fingers around the unregistered handgun, place it at the guy’s temple, and shoot.

It takes less than five minutes, easy, including the quick splatter cleanup with wet wipes he’ll bag and take with him. But he strolls around the house for an additional ten minutes, just to keep Coulson waiting.

When he gets back to his car, Clint isn’t surprised to see Coulson standing beside it. He waves unapologetically.

“Sorry about that, I was getting some strange interference so I thought I’d leave the piece in the car,” he says glibly. Coulson doesn’t seem amused.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Clint, but it ends now,” he says, and Clint feels his stomach tighten. Here it is, then. He’s thrown everything in his arsenal at Coulson, and it’s finally enough. Coulson is finally going to prove him right and walk away.

“Everything went according to plan,” he says, like Coulson hasn’t said anything at all. “Cut and dried suicide, no trace of an intruder.”

“And am I supposed to take your word for that?” Coulson asks, the implication so obvious that it burns.

“I did my job just fine, okay?” Clint snaps.

“No,” Coulson says. “No, you did not do your job _just fine_ , even if your performance was exemplary. And we’re going to get to the bottom of it. Get in the car.”

“You’re not going to go check my homework first?” Clint asks caustically, jerking his head back to the mansion.

“Your problem isn’t with the job. It’s with me,” Coulson says. “Now get in the car.”

Clint is fuming, but he’s not stupid enough to disobey, not when Coulson is speaking to him in clipped tones without a single ‘please’ or a ‘good job.’ He gets into the passenger seat, buckles his seatbelt, and shuts his mouth.

\--

If Clint is surprised when Coulson misses the turn-off for the hotel, he doesn’t say anything. The older agent keeps driving until he apparently finds what he was looking for - a single-story building with a chipped wooden sign advertising “Darlene’s Motor Court.”

“Wait here,” Coulson directs, and Clint doesn’t have much of a choice, so he stays put as Coulson walks inside, and returns shortly with a large metal key.

“Room 108,” he tells Clint, and Clint gets out of the car and follows, still not sure what’s going on.

Once he’s inside the dilapidated motel room, Coulson locks the door behind him. “You’re not going to walk out of this conversation,” he tells Clint, and Clint feels his stomach sink. Because this is it. This is the part where Coulson writes him off. Clint has proved what he set out to prove, and it fucking sucks.

“You can’t make me talk to you,” he says. There’s no lock on the bathroom door, he notices, and no way to get that window open without breaking it - it’s probably been painted shut for thirty years. There’s no breakfast table in this room either, although he can’t help but have flashbacks to Vienna, so he takes a seat on the single king-sized bed, crossing his arms across his chest.

“You don’t think you’ll want to leave anytime soon?” Coulson asks, looking down at him.

Clint forces himself to breathe, even though he knows his anger is probably written all over his face. “I’m not the one who wants to leave,” he says finally.

“Is that what you think this is about?” Coulson is watching him, acting for all the world like a fucking shrink, and Clint’s hands clench into fists despite himself.

“Isn’t it?” he asks. “This is the part where you tell me you’re sick of my shit and you’re leaving? Or you’re requesting reassignment unless I let you beat my ass? Sir?”

“I’m not requesting reassignment,” Coulson tells him, and Clint gives a huff of disbelief.

“I mean it,” Coulson says. “That’s not going to happen, even if you never change your mind. But I deserve an explanation for the way you’ve been pushing me ever since Vienna, and I deserve to know why you aren’t even considering spankings. Because we need to find something that works.”

“Yeah, spankings wouldn’t work,” Clint says. He knows he’s going to break down talking about this, going to be utterly exposed and humiliated, but it’s probably nothing Coulson couldn’t guess - nothing Natasha hasn’t already guessed - and if he’s on the verge of breaking down anyway, Coulson might as well get the truth out of it. He taps his fingers nervously against his knees.

“Why not?” Coulson asks, and Clint gives a sardonic laugh.

“I’m sure you’ve read the rest of my file too,” he says bitingly. “You should know that all those times I got beat growing up didn’t do a thing for me.”

“That’s not how it works, and you know it. We go through training for this,” Coulson reminds Clint. At least he’s not acting sympathetic. If anything sends Clint over the edge, it’s sympathy.

“Oh, right, you beat me, then you put your arms around me and tell me you love me,” he shoots back.

“I might skip the love part,” Coulson says dryly. “And I’m still waiting on an answer, Clint.”

Clint’s mouth works; he wants to say the words, but he doesn’t know how to frame them, how to organize them so they come out the right way and Coulson understands.

“You want to know why it wouldn’t work?” he says finally. “Because I’d be so fucking desperate to get your attention, just to have the part at the end where you touch me and tell me it’s okay, that I’d be out of line every minute of every day.” His voice breaks near the end, and he hates Coulson, he hates SHIELD, he hates Miami and right now he hates every part of his life.

“And the worst part,” he continues, because if he doesn’t say it now he’s never going to, and at least this way Coulson will understand why Clint had to get rid of him, “the worst part is that you’d only be doing it because it’s your job, and it would be your job to be nice to me, and hold me, and it would fucking destroy me inside and none of it would even be real. It wouldn’t be because you care, it would be because SHIELD thought I fucked up. And you know what? I do fuck up. Missions get fucked all the time. And you shouldn’t be able to just - just break me apart because I’ll _respond_ to it.”

Clint has lost all semblance of control now, and he can’t even look at Coulson - the man is going to hate him now, now that he knows how weak and stupid and fucked up Clint really is.

“I had no idea you felt that way,” Coulson says after a moment, and Clint snorts.

“Yeah, so that’s why spanking just isn’t going to work for us,” he says. “Sorry.” He knows his voice is raw and wounded and everything about him is coming undone, but he did his best to warn Coulson away before this happened. His best just wasn’t good enough.

“Let me ask you one thing, Clint,” Coulson says, and suddenly his handler is sitting next to him on the side of the bed. “If my interest in you was strictly professional, don’t you think I would already have asked for a reassignment?”

Clint looks up then, at a loss. “Sir?” he asks, because that’s all he thinks he can probably manage.

“Months ago,” Coulson says. “I’m not here right now because it’s my job, Clint. I’m here because you’re drowning, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

And that’s the difference, Clint realizes in a sudden burst of clarity, between all his other handlers and Coulson. Every other agent he’s been assigned has refused to watch him drown, and Coulson refuses to _let_ him drown. He takes in a sharp breath as the impact hits him.

“So you think you’d go out of your way to ask for spankings,” Coulson says, and Clint flinches.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. He’s back to staring at the faded carpet.

“Would it be so hard to just ask for company or a hug instead?” Coulson asks him, and Clint laughs again.

“Uhh, yeah,” he says. “Sir. It would.”

“I guess I won’t wait for you to ask then,” Coulson says, and before Clint can stop him, he’s put his arms around him. Clint stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away, and it’s a good thirty seconds before Coulson releases him.

“I’d like you to consider withdrawing your veto,” he says after a moment. “Now, before you think this is some kind of ultimatum, I’m not asking for reassignment regardless. But I think our jobs would go more smoothly if spankings were an option.”

“You want to spank me?” Clint asks, even though he knows what the answer will be.

“You can’t even begin to imagine how much,” Coulson tells him, and Clint gives a wry smile.

“If you were too uncomfortable, of course, we could always discuss reinstating the veto,” Coulson adds.

“I - does it have to be official?” Clint asks, and Coulson nods.

“The documents are on my phone,” he says. “You could easily give an electronic signature if it’s something you’re ready to pursue.”

“I - right now?” Clint asks. He’s stalling for time, he knows. Coulson’s feelings on the matter are obvious.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Clint is never going to be ready. But he nods shakily and takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Okay,” he says. Coulson is passing him the phone a minute later, directing him to sign his full name with the stylus and scan his thumbprint in.

There’s a momentary pause as Coulson uploads the document to SHIELD’s database. The beep that confirms it might as well be a death knoll.

“You’ve been causing a lot of trouble trying to scare me off,” Coulson says, turning to Clint, and Clint actually gets shivers down his spine when he realizes that Coulson is scolding him, and that he’s about to be punished.

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically, risking a glance up at Coulson’s face. The older man is watching him sternly.

“I hope this teaches you that I don’t scare easily,” Coulson answers. He looks up and down Clint’s body. “Stand up.”

Clint swallows nervously but rises to his feet, moving ever so slightly away from Coulson as he does. Because maybe this is something he’s needed for a long time, but now that the moment is staring him in the face, he’s terrified.

Coulson beckons him forward. “Come here, Clint,” he says, crooking a finger, and Clint wills himself to move closer. It takes every ounce of resolve he possesses.

He stops just in front of where Coulson is still seated on the bed, standing awkwardly between the man’s knees. When Coulson’s hands reach out and take hold of his trousers, he shies away and draws in a sharp breath, but Coulson shakes his head.

“These are coming down, Clint,” he says, calmly unzipping the black leather. Clint wants to slap his hands away, or at least insist on doing it himself, but he’s paralyzed as the pants are tugged to his knees, pinning his legs awkwardly. His briefs follow in short order, and he’s blushing furiously, leaning back from Coulson as much as he dares.

“The only thing you should be ashamed of is your behavior,” Coulson tells him, and a fresh wave of guilt and embarrassment washes over Clint.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbles again, and Coulson nods.

“I intend to make sure of that,” he says, and Clint isn’t sure how his handler is doing it, but he’s manipulating Clint’s body, tugging him down to lie over his left thigh. Clint is pressed securely into Coulson’s lap when the man’s right thigh comes down over his legs, further anchoring him in place. He’s horribly aware of how exposed he is, with his ass pointing straight in the air and his lower body all but immobilized. Then Coulson’s left arm comes down over his waist, and Clint knows that his spanking is about to begin.

“A number of unpleasant and embarrassing situations could have been avoided if you had discussed spankings with me earlier,” Coulson lectures, punctuating the sentence with three firm swats to Clint’s right cheek. Clint hears the noise and feels the impact before the pain spreads, sharp and shocking across his bare skin.

“Your reluctance to admit vulnerability and ask for help is what got you into this mess today,” the senior agent continues. This time the swats come to Clint’s left cheek, and even though he’s expecting them, the sting takes his breath away for a moment.

“”For the past year and a half, you’ve taken every opportunity to drive me away,” Coulson reminds him, and this time the spanks continue to fall during the lecture. Clint can’t tune out his words any more than he can tune out the burning pain that’s turning to intense heat.

“You’ve been disrespectful, insubordinate, and put missions at risk on more than one occasion in your attempts to scare me off,” Coulson sums up. “And that’s not even regarding your previous handlers, all of whom were subjected to the same treatment. The dangerous, self-destructive attitude ends now, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint grits out. He’s put his hands over his eyes, but it’s not doing anything to distance him from the awfulness of the situation, or his growing physical discomfort.

“I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere, that I’m here because I care about you as a person, and that I’m not the only one,” Coulson says. “And it’s time you started acting like you believed it.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint gasps, and Coulson, apparently satisfied for the time being, moves to smacking in earnest. Clint’s cheeks feel like they’re catching fire, and every now and then Coulson devotes several swats to a single spot until he actually makes Clint whimper.

Clint isn’t sure what it is about the punishment - that it’s so childish, perhaps, or so intimate - but somehow his resistance to the spanking is much lower than his resistance to bullet wounds, lacerations, or actual burns. His whimpers grow louder and more frequent, and at one point he even catches himself trying to pull free from Coulson’s hold, but the man has him firmly pinned down, and it doesn’t even faze him.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, knowing he’s on the verge of the breakdown he’s been trying to hold back for years, and suddenly afraid Coulson won’t stop before the dam bursts. “I’m sorry, sir, please, I’m sorry….”

“You’ll do better next time,” Coulson says, apparently unmoved, and as he brings his hand down again and again right at the top of Clint’s right thigh, Clint loses it. He thrashes wildly, but it’s hopeless. Tears streak down his face as he cries out loud, a hitching, wounded sound he hasn’t heard himself make since he was a child.

Coulson’s hand stops spanking then, resting instead right at the curve of his ass. The warmth and weight on his hot skin is nearly unbearable, but Clint can’t even protest as he deals with the flood of tears and emotion.

“I’m glad we’ve broken through your defenses,” Coulson says, still holding Clint in place as his sobs subside to choking gasps and he gives up fighting. “Because what you did today was completely unacceptable, and you’re going to be punished for it.”

“No,” Clint begs, despair creeping into his voice as he tries to fathom the thought of taking more spanking in this condition. “No, sir, please….”

“From the day I became your handler, I’ve told you how crucial communication is to our relationship,” Coulson says sternly. “We’ve had the discussion about keeping the lines of communication open no fewer than three times, including just last month in Vienna. And you saw fit to deliberately leave your earpiece in the car while you walked into a house that could very well have been expecting you.”

“I didn’t - didn’t - ” Clint tries, although he’s not sure what he wants to say. He didn’t mean to? He didn’t want to hurt Coulson? He didn’t know what he was doing?

“You did,” Coulson contradicts. “And from now on, Clint, there are going to be serious consequences for that sort of deliberate disobedience and recklessness. If you ever pull a stunt like that with your earpiece again, I will spank you every night for a week. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint moans, letting out a fresh wail when Coulson raises his hand and brings it down once more.

“Good. I hope you understand that I take this very seriously,” Coulson says. And Clint has no doubt about that whatsoever, because Coulson’s hard hand coming down on his punished skin makes the point extraordinarily well.

Clint can’t say how long his second spanking goes on, only that it seems like an eternity as Coulson moves from cheek to thigh, painting every inch of exposed skin a brilliant red. All he knows is that every last angry, frightened, miserable tear is wrung out of him, and when he finally lies still over Coulson’s lap, without any tears left, it stops.

“It’s over now, Clint,” he hears Coulson saying, and he nods his understanding, too spent for words. He feels Coulson’s arm and leg lift, releasing him, but he still doesn’t move. The motel quilt is soaked through with his tears, and he buries his face in the cold, wet fabric. He doesn’t know what he wants to say most - _I’m sorry_ or _That hurt like hell_ or _Thank you._

“Come on,” Coulson tells him. “Up you go.” And he’s being lifted to his feet, his pants and shorts still around his knees, and Coulson is rising to meet him and envelop him in a tight hug.

“I know how hard that was for you,” Coulson tells him, Clint’s head tucked into his shoulder. “You took it very well. I’m so proud of you, Clint.”

It’s everything Clint has wanted to hear, everything he hasn’t let himself believe. And he finds, to his surprise, that he has a few tears left inside him after all.

“Shhhh,” Coulson soothes, rubbing Clint’s back and letting him cry. “It’s okay, Clint. Everything is going to be okay.”

And against all his instincts, against everything he’s lived by for all his years at SHIELD, Clint believes him.


	3. Epilogue

Clint bruises his tailbone falling through a third-story window outside Rio de Janeiro; he shouldn’t have been inside the building in the first place, and Coulson lets him know in no uncertain terms that he would be getting one hell of a spanking if any other part of his anatomy had been injured. As it is, he gives Clint a good dozen swats to the thighs before assigning him a week of desk duty.

Really, at this point Coulson should know better. Because sitting on an inflatable donut and reviewing Academy tests to ensure no cheating occurred can’t hold Clint’s interest for long.

_I’m a man,_ he fills out, _looking for a woman, between the ages of 35 and 45._ After that the questions get harder, but he’s only trying to help, so he answers them as honestly as possible. Unless, you know, the fake answers are funnier. _If my life were a movie, it would be: an action flick. I have been arrested or served time in prison: somewhat agree._ And, well, the question about doodling style is just funny, because Clint doesn’t think Phil Coulson has ever doodled in his life. He votes for the grid, because when all’s said and done, Coulson is still kind of a stick in the mud.

He sends the exclusive personality analysis and free matches in his area to p.coulson@shield.gov, sits back, and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“My office. Now,” Coulson directs, and Clint is the picture of wounded innocence.

“What did I do?” he asks, apparently insulted. He doesn’t move from the desk, aware that they’re attracting the attention of a few curious agents and recruits.

“I think you know exactly what you did,” Coulson says.

Clint purses his lips and shakes his head.

Coulson glares. “Does the phrase ‘I like long walks on the beach, _Supernanny_ , and women who know how to use tasers’ mean anything to you?”

“Uhhh, no?” Clint tries.

“Ever hear of the website teddybeardate.com?” Coulson persists. “For women looking for ‘cuddly, paternal, teddy bear types?’”

Clint loses it at that, hearing the site’s slogan come out of Coulson’s thinned lips. He nearly falls out of his inflatable donut laughing.

“How’s the tailbone?” Coulson asks dryly, as Clint braces himself on the desk.

“Coming along great,” Clint gasps, wiping his eyes and getting his breath back under control. “Doctor says I should be back to normal by Friday.”

“Then I’ll see you in my office on Friday,” Coulson says, and walks away before Clint has any idea whether or not he means it.

He’s pretty sure Coulson was joking. Pretty sure.

At any rate, it’s not enough of a deterrent to keep him from uploading a profile for n.fury@shield.gov to seacaptaindate.com.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case no one has figured it out by now, apparently I just like excuses to spank Clint Barton. Whoops.
> 
> Seacaptaindate.com is a real(?!) dating site, but as of yet, there's no teddybeardate.com. More's the pity.


End file.
